


What Died Didn't Stay Dead

by alrightyy026



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes After Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Gen, Help, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mentions of Steve Rogers - Freeform, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Tags Are Hard, but not really, i think, it's kinda implied, mentions of HYDRA, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28463229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alrightyy026/pseuds/alrightyy026
Summary: His head feels like it’s in shambles which would only be accurate. He’s scared, not that he’ll ever admit it. He realizes he has nowhere to go. Or at least he has a choice.For the first time that he can remember, he actually has a choice.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	What Died Didn't Stay Dead

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this at like 2 am and then went back and changed stuff instead of doing homework, but honestly whatever. Economics can wait.
> 
> Clearly I suck at summaries and I know it’s not 2015 anymore, but it’s not like I have anything better to do. 
> 
> And yes the title is taken from the song marjorie. All hail the queen, Taylor Swift.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Winter Soldier finds himself with a new name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is basically how Bucky went from the river in tws to the museum. I might add another chapter of how he got to Romania but honestly this is all I have right now.

**POTOMAC RIVER - Washington D.C., USA**

When he first leaves the man by the river, he’s not sure what to do. The helicarrier, the fight, the mission... it’s like a broken puzzle in his brain right now. He can’t focus. He should focus— no, he _needs_ to focus— if he’s going to survive. 

Survival wasn’t a problem before. He simply obeyed what was said. Walk here, stand up, open this, don’t move. 

Now everything’s falling apart. At least he assumes everything is falling apart. He failed his mission. He failed his mission and he would be punished. His handler would be waiting for him. 

He can picture his eyes staring at him with utter disappointment. He shudders at the thought of what he’ll do to him, which does nothing to help his dislocated arm. Why did it hurt so much? It was a minuscule injury; he’d suffered much worse before, even if he couldn’t exactly remember what. 

He walks parallel to the river, with blood sticking to his body and a pounding headache. 

His head feels like it’s in shambles which would only be accurate. He’s scared, not that he’ll ever admit it. He realizes, once he takes a moment to lean against a tree, he has nowhere to go. Or at least he has a choice. 

For the first time that he can remember, he actually has a choice. He can go back to the base. He knows where it’s hidden underground. He can picture the fluorescent lights and the yellow tiled floor. He thinks he can smell the bleach and see the men with their loaded guns, aimed at him. 

He thinks about the blond man he left behind. The one person who’d looked at him like something other than a weapon. He told him he cared, risked his life not to fight him. _I’m with you..._

_I’m with you ‘til the end of the line._

The end of the line? He doesn’t know what that means. It’s vaguely familiar. He can tell deep down somewhere that he’s heard it before. He’s not sure where but it’s enough for him to blink in confusion. 

He doesn’t have to go back. He knows that.

He steps away from the tree and continues walking. He doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t have anywhere to go. 

He finds a safe house. He’s not entirely sure how he knows where it is. Maybe it’s one of the things he can remember— one of the few things left in his mess of a brain. 

It’s a cabin in the woods. He’s been holding his right arm to his chest the entire time. It’s dark outside now, but he can still make his way to the door.

He opens it, stepping inside wearily. Immediately shutting it, he instinctively reaches for a gun. Or a knife. Anything. His arm will have to do. Training has prepared him to always be alert. It’s a safe house, but how can he really be safe? He barricades the door with whatever he can find and steps away. The floorboards creak under his boots until he backs away into a wall. There’s probably a couch somewhere or a sort of bedroom, but he’s too tired to even look around. 

He figures that if he’s killed then it may be the easiest way to go. The longer he’s away from Hydra, the more he realizes he doesn’t want to ever go back. He should be punished for failing his mission, but nothing makes sense anymore. If Hydra really cared, then why was he so frightened to return to them?

All he wants is to close his eyes and finally find peace. He tells himself he can’t. That it’s too risky and anyone could find him. He’s too tired for that though. He sinks down onto the floor breathing heavily, and closes his eyes. 

The night is restless but he doesn’t expect anything different. A different kind of restless— a night plagued by nightmares ( _or are they memories?_ ) instead of physical pain, but it’s expected nonetheless.

The next time he’s fully awake, it’s still dark. He forces himself to his feet, grimacing as he moves his arm. He rummages through the closet in the next room, looking for something. Clothes. He was looking for clothes. 

The suit he was in was uncomfortable. No matter how many times he’d been strapped into and been removed from it, the suit always felt like a harness. It felt as if it were meant to contain him. He wonders if that was the point.

He finally finds an old shirt and some pants. It’s nothing fancy but at least the sleeves are long enough to cover his arms. He pokes at his right shoulder. With one motion he’s able to push it back in place. The sudden pop and stab of pain makes him hiss in surprise. It’s still painful, but at least he can move it now. 

He begins to take off the suit, undoing the straps on the front. It takes a painstakingly long time, only supporting the fact that the agents would be in charge of dressing and undressing him for missions. It’s a nicechange though, he thinks. Eventually he’s able to pry off the top. 

He’s not sure why, but there’s a mirror hanging on the wall. He stares at himself, trying to comb back through his memory. Had he always looked like this? He turns looking at his back. It’s lightly grazed with scars, most of them faded. And then there’s the arm. He traces his fingers across the scars. That he remembers now. The metal, the scorching, the pain. He can see the other scars too; the ones he caused himself, by scratching, pulling, doing anything to remove the extra weight. 

Who was he? 

Who _is_ he? 

Who is James Buchanan Barnes?

He picks up the shirt and gets dressed. Underneath the couch is a safe filled with standard items for an undercover operation: passports, money, a driver’s license. The name on the passport and driver’s license is Thomas Montgomery. He at least knows that’s not who he is.

He leaves the safe house and is eventually able to find himself in the city. He stands on the side of the road, watching the cars pass by. He’s pretty sure he was able to get all the blood off already, but determined not to take any chances, he walks into a store. There’s probably a bathroom. 

He finds it and goes in. The sink lets him wash his face again and it’s so nice. He decides he’ll buy a jacket and a hat... and gloves. He can see the metal hand and wonders if anyone else saw it. 

He grabs what he needs and sets it down on the counter. The cashier looks at him clearly bored. 

“That all?” they ask.

“Yes,” he says, avoiding eye contact. Eye contact was not allowed with Hydra unless specifically requested. 

“Huh okay. That’s, uh, $55.20.”

He takes out the money and flips through it. He hands it to the cashier and takes the bag with the items. He leaves the store without saying another word, putting on the gloves. He feels like everyone is watching him, waiting to take him down. It’s eerie not having anyone next to him.

He spots a brochure in a trash can. _The Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum._ He opens it, looking at the exhibits. He forgets to breathe as he finds the main attraction of the museum. Captain America. Steve Rogers.

 _Steve._ He knows that name. He’s not supposed to know that name. Except... except he’s not with Hydra anymore.

He throws the brochure back in the trash. He’s memorized the location.

The hat and jacket allows him to travel unnoticed. He reaches the museum. The building looks all abstract, like nothing he can remember seeing. Not that he can remember much. It’s still just bits and pieces of incoherent voices and faces.

He steps inside and walks in the direction of crowds. They start to split up, going into separate hallways.

He walks down a hallway. It leads to what he had assumed to be the main exhibit. There’s a wall with a mural of Captain America. At least he knows this man and his mission were the same person. He walks further into the exhibit. There are panels detailing the transformation of the Captain: pre-serum and post-serum. An old bicycle and other 1930s memorabilia is stored behind a glass casing. 

The next section is focused on the war. There’s a broken motorcycle on display, with panels with information on the “Adventures of Captain America.” Camp Lehigh, the tour in Italy... Azzano? That sounded familiar. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. He probably had a mission there. That was more likely than anything else.

There’s a large display of the so-called Howling Commandos and their uniforms. The suit in the middle, presumably the Captain’s, is missing. His mind flashes back to the helicarrier and he decides to move on.

Then he finds the memorial. He stops in his tracks, looking at the title and then the paragraphs below it.

“... _captured by Hydra._ ”

“ _...his childhood friend, Steve Rogers..._ ”

And then, at the bottom, “ _Bucky Barnes: 1917-1944._ ”

He’s taken aback by all of it. If it weren’t for the photo that looked _so damn similar_ to his own face, he would’ve called himself crazy. Maybe he was crazy. He wouldn’t be surprised. 

But maybe the man had been telling the truth. Steve had told the truth.

There’s a flutter in his chest of something new, something he’d really like to call hope. There’s footage of Steve and a man, a man that looks like him, except he’s smiling. He has short hair and he has less muscle too, but he’s _smiling_.

Fear overtakes him. Reality sinks in and now he panics.

To Steve he was Bucky. To Hydra he was their asset. And to the world? A ghost story or a hero depending on who was asked. 

But who is he now?

He ran from Steve and nearly killed the man. He isn’t Bucky (is he?). He’s not with Hydra anymore so he can’t be the Asset (right?). He’s not sure who he is, but he knows who he doesn’t want to be. 

His mind is still chaos and he’s deathly afraid of forgetting the few things he’s remembered. He doesn’t want to forget.

He stares at the memorial for at least another five minutes, and then rushes out. He buys a collection of photos from the gift shop before leaving. There’s a motel somewhere in the city, which he stops at and checks in. For a secret organization, they sure had a lot of money. 

He shrugs off the jacket once he’s in the room, and takes off the gloves and hat. He finds the shabby bathroom, but he’s certain he’s seen worse.

He gets into the shower, and thank god for the hot water. No matter how long he’s out of cryo, there always seems to be an everlasting cold. 

He dries himself off and changes back into the clothes he bought. Absentmindedly running a hand through his hair, he leans against the sink. His right hand shakes as he takes out the gift shop photos. He’s not entirely sure why he bought them. 

He stares at the third photo. It’s a photo ~~of Bucky Barnes~~ of him. Except it’s not him, is it? Not anymore at least. He looks at his reflection in the mirror and then back at the photo.

He decides to avoid looking in mirrors.


End file.
